Future Proche

His fingers could dance. He knew that. As he felt them caress those soft, intimate keys, he knew that they were just about to.

A string quartet would begin to play. The bass would join in. An electric guitar would interrupt rudely and impulsively, snatching the song away to unknown lands and flying as the bird over fields of golden and white and green. A tenor would claim control, soften the flow with mighty strength.

The rivers would meander once more, water lapping against sharp rocks gentled by the thousands of years. The waters would gurgle, the child would sleep peacefully.

His cry would be the break to a new part. Chaos would reign as uncertainty, with absolute power, would take over. Drawn this way and that way, stretched taut at some times and lying loose at others. The net would snap, the song would plunge.

It would plunge through the depths of endless space, passing by stars, nodding to adjacent planets, unaware of its speed and heedless of the danger. Gravity would bring it back to an earth. It would land. It would be one with the land again.

It would whisper, and it would rumble. It would suggest and imply, it would not threaten or provoke. From the hilly sounds of an acoustic, it would change to royalty and aristocracy. The keys of the piano would strike regally, talking of greatness and strength and passion. And speed and skill and pain and tears. The play would stop.

The people would applaud as they were told they must. And then they would leave. They would talk of dinner and where to go next. They would talk of troubles and sisters and friends. The stage would be empty, dark and alone. A song would still play, all on its own.

He knew it would. If only, they let him. If only they didnt pull so, every single time.

Get back to work. It's only a week more.

Sigh. Let's see. I shall return. One day. Maybe. Hopefully. Again.

Let's see. I have some work to show.